


Sounds like Glory, Feels like Love.

by keeping_10_people_happy_is_tricky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Depictions of wounds/injuries, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, will update as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-15 05:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5774005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeping_10_people_happy_is_tricky/pseuds/keeping_10_people_happy_is_tricky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is like war: easy to start, difficult to end; and impossible to forget.<br/>- Unknown</p><p>Taken from the field of the Third Battle of Ypres, Pietro finds himself fighting something new altogether. Nightmares, injury, the uncertainty of life after war. Though in his recovery, he is able to make friends. But one such person, another soldier with difficulty hearing, affects him far more than the war ever could. </p><p>ON HIATUS AT THE MOMENT.<br/> </p><p>(wow I suck at summaries)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sounds like Glory, Feels like Love.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my attempt at a WWI AU. There will be inaccuracies, things added, taken away, all that jazz.  
> This will be slow and it's literally evolving as I write it but it's an idea long in the making so I have a pretty good idea where this will be headed. I think.  
> But if you will bare with me, I'm sure this can be an interesting journey. It's not my first fanfic or first in this fandom but it is my first War AU so if you have any suggestions or such then let me know, it will be greatly appreciated.  
> Also, I don't know how frequent updates will be because of Uni but we shall see.  
> Mistakes are my own, since I wrote this without the help of my wonderful beta Ximena13, characters are not mine! 
> 
> Enjoy :)

_There is mud and dirt everywhere._ There always is. And the worst is that it's mixed with sweat, tears and often with blood. There is not as much blood as he once expected; but there is enough to make one sick.   
  But right now everything is hazy; thick and dark around the edges. Someone is calling and he can't quite make out the words. But there is always people yelling amidst the chaos and always they sound like fear. But then someone is saying actual words with meaning and purpose- "Hang on mate, you hang in there! We're not losing you now!"   
  The darkness is interrupted with with bright flashes and grey skies. It had rained so often. And then there is a young woman standing out in the middle of the muddied field. She wears her long brown hair up and tucked underneath a black hat. She is in a red skirt and jacket with a white blouse. A beautiful vision in an otherwise ugly place. But then the sound of a bomb rings in his ears before it hits her and Pietro screams her name-

  "Wanda!" He yells and his throat ripples with a burning pain. Just a dream. Just another angry, vivid- _not real_ \- dream that leaves him sweating and fearful as it does so many other men. But he is not on the battlefield anymore. If anything, this place is more hellish.   
  Off in the far corner, some man cries out in pain as a nurse and doctor amputate his rotting leg. Another groans as his side splits; a loved one's name on his lips. A nurse rushes past in a dirty skirt with bloodied tools on a tray that rattle like Pietro's father's car used to. Her boots click noisily against the wood. There is a priest on Pietro's right saying a prayer for the man whose face is wrapped in bandages and his left arm missing. Soon, he will be gone and another will undoubtedly take his place.   
  Pietro's own wounds are not so bad. He cannot feel his right leg but he sees the bandages. His left shoulder has a gunshot wound with shrapnel scars peppering his once unblemished skin. They said that the pieces were removed but Pietro can still feel the metal burning under the surface.   
  It is the beginning of November in 1917, somewhere in Belgium. Pietro is the closest he has been to his home country of Russia, since he was ten, but he feels the most far away from it now. This world of warfare and suffering seems so alien to his previously quiet life.   
  The next few days are spent in confusion. Pietro sleeps for there is little else to do. But sleep means nightmares and nightmares cause his heart to ache and makes him want to cry. He desperately wants to write to his sister, Wanda. To tell her that he is alive, for now, and that he misses her dearly. But nurses only have so much time for him before another soldier cries something in German and starts choking on his own blood and saliva. His own wounds, no longer life threatening, seem meek in comparison.   
  It is several days later, when he can finally sit up on his own, when a nurse comes to him with a well practiced smile. There are smudges of dirt on her cheek as well as her forehead and her skirt is in poor condition but still she remains one of the loveliest things Pietro has seen in a long while.   
  "What is it?" He asks and although she is thrown off at first by his Russian accent, the nurse answers with a calm voice while another nurse yells for water.   
  "You are to be sent to a clinic in France tomorrow. It'll be better than lying around here, that's for sure."   
  "France? But I cannot speak French."   
  "Not to worry," she says as she starts tending to the man on Pietro's left. The wrappings on his stomach turn scarlet as the blood pools out quickly. It gets all over the nurses hands and arms but still she manages a smile in Pietro's direction. "I'm sure there'll be some people who can speak English there." She then begins calming the other man down whilst pressing more cloth onto the bandaged wound, so Pietro concedes to the conversation being over. And to the fact that he is, indeed, going to France. 

  He sits in the back of a truck with perhaps twenty other men. Their injuries numerous and some are worse than his own. But they are all silent. Heads hang low like weights, bringing their shoulders down. Pietro sees a man across from with and it looks like he is trying to hide his head with his shoulders, he's so wary. There is no cheer from getting away from the battle front; not when it lingers in their skin and behind their eyes.   
  It is hours later when the truck makes its final stop. Pietro wakes up, sitting upright between the other waking soldiers, but he feels more tired than he has been. There are men yelling once more and the soldiers heave themselves from the truck. It takes an age, Pietro thinks. It feels like a lifetime from getting out of the truck and getting settled into a bed.   
  The smiling nurse was wrong; no one but handfuls of soldiers speak English.   
  At first they tell him to do something, when he doesn't respond accordingly, the nurses and doctors move him. They're used to their patients not understanding them. Thankfully, Pietro knows better than to object to anything. The nurses are efficient; they assess and dress his wounds routinely. They give him crutches, for his right leg is numb. But he disuses the left one since that shoulder becomes agony when he supports his weight on the crutches. It is a slow and frustrating process.   
  One week later, Pietro finds out that other soldiers have been able to send letters to their loved ones. It takes him a few tries to get the nurse to understand what he wants. He mimes writing and she more or less understands. He writes in English for his Russian is shaky and Wanda always chastises him for it. 

 

   _' My dear sister,_

 _I am alive but wounded. Nothing terrible but my right leg is not as it should be. So much of this is not as it should be. Do not be alarmed but I was shot in the left shoulder. I will not go into detail but it is fine._  
_In fact, I wish not to go into detail about any of this. I do not wish to trouble you. Therefore, I ask that you do not question me about this war, it will do neither of us any good. And I would rather have you smiling and full of joy. I know that you are strong but this war would have changed you. I will not see it do so now. Not while I still live._  
_I am in France right now, out of Belgium and away from the front line. A nurse assured me that someone would speak English here. She was wrong. So annoyingly wrong. I feel like a mime when I ask for anything. But I shouldn't complain. Things are better than they were._  
_I hope this letter finds you well and that our next meeting comes soon. I have missed you terribly and the sight of you would be a welcome reprieve from seeing other men and hardened nurses everyday._

_With love,_

_Your brother, Pietro. '_

 

  He writes Wanda's address on the envelope and hands it to a nearby nurse. He feels better having written something to her.   
  "Writing to your loved ones?" The man in the cot on his left asks.   
  "My sister," Pietro replies. The man is quiet large, broad shoulders and thick arms. His blonde hair is half up and tied in a plait while the rest hangs at his shoulders. His facial hair, however, is dark like his eyebrows. It accents the brightness of his eyes.   
  "Thor," he says and extends his hand. Pietro carefully rolls over, mindful of his shoulder, and shakes his hand.   
  "Pietro. Where are you from?"   
  "Glasgow, lived there with my brother. Can't say I'm not missing it. What about you? You've got a bit of an accent there."   
  "Russia, but I moved to America when I was ten."   
  "America? Wouldn't mind seeing it, myself. Wouldn't mind seeing this place too when this is all said and done."   
  "It would be nice, I'm sure." Thor flashes Pietro a broad grin and Pietro thinks that this man isn't the type to hide his emotions. Too open; too kind.   
  For a while, they talk about anything but the war. What they did as children, their families, what they wish to do after and where they want to go. All hopeful things and it makes Pietro feel safe. Then the nurses come and tend to them before they dive back into another lengthy conversation well after the lights go out. They whisper like children and Pietro feels slightly giddy by it all. As does Thor if the smile on his face is any indication.   
  "So what is it that your brother does?" Pietro asks, trying to keep his voice down while other men snore loudly.   
  "He has always been secretive so I'm not sure. All I know is that I've had to save his scrawny arse a couple of times." Thor answers, tucking the sheet over his shoulder.   
  "So you're like his body guard?"   
  "Ha!" They both stuff their faces into the pillow when one of the nurses shushes them sternly. "Whoops," the blonde whispers. "But yeah, I guess I am. Though we aren't exactly brothers."   
  "What do you mean?"   
  "We were raised together as kids since we were neighbors. Many of the other kids didn't understand him but I liked him. Liked the challenge of becoming his friend, so when he accepted my invitation to parties or just playing together, it'd feel like I'd earned it."   
  "But should you have to work that hard for friendships?"   
  "Maybe, maybe not. But for me, I feel that it made our bond stronger."   
  "I'm jealous, I've never had a friend like that. It's always been me and Wanda."   
  "And that's not good enough?"   
  "No! It is, but..." Pietro falls silent for a moment. "I've never really had friends."   
  "Well you've got one now," Thor says with such pride that Pietro believes it wholeheartedly. 

  Yet another week passes; but this one far more enjoyable. With Thor by his side, Pietro works on moving his leg in order to keep the muscles moving if he is to have any chance of fixing it. Thor works on his injured arm, mindful of the scars all over his back.  
  One day, while they sat out in the sun for the first time in a long while, they spoke of the war. But only the origin of their wounds. Thor had seen a grenade land close by but he didn't run and hide. There had been a medical dog out looking for soldiers and Thor just could handle the thought of the poor creature getting blown up. Not one so loyal and brave. Therefore, he had shielded it from the explosion, breaking his arm on the fall and getting shrapnel all over his back. But the dog was safe which was enough for Thor.   
  Pietro can't exactly remember how he got his. All he remembers is a sharp pain and everything becoming hazy around the edges. It troubles him. But Thor is hopeful that they'll both recover and that the war will end soon. For everyone's sake. 

  A few days pass before a stranger visits. Thor has been taken to a medical examination so Pietro reads. The stranger is a tall, lanky man with pale skin and raven hair. His features are sharp but not as sharp as his eyes. He wears a finely tailored suit with a dark green tie. He looks so out of place for a war hospital.   
  It takes Pietro a moment to recognize him from all of Thor's stories. When the man is close enough, Pietro calls out.   
  "Excuse me, are you Loki?" The man turns slowly, staring suspiciously at Pietro.   
  "Yes, I am." He is on guard so Pietro takes a page out of Thor's book and smiles.   
  "You must be here for Thor. He's gone for a medical exam but he'll be back soon. I'm Pietro." Loki nods and waits a long moment before replying.   
  "I take it you're a comrade of his?"   
  "A friend. We didn't fight together. But we have been here, healing."   
  "Healing is a battle in itself," Loki says with a softness that comes as quickly as it goes. Before Pietro can ask anything else, Thor comes back.   
  "Brother!" He calls, a broad grin stretches across his face as a joyous bark leaves his mouth. His right arm, the left in a sling, is held out in welcome. A small smirk tugs at the corner of Loki's mouth at the sight of his brother, allowing the blonde to pull him into a tight hug.   
  "Careful you oaf!" Loki chides with mirthful disdain. "I will not be responsible for injuring you further." He looks fondly at Thor when they step back from each other.   
  "It is good to see you, Loki. What a sight you are."   
  "And you look dreadful as always." Thor laughs at that which confuses other onlookers. But Pietro understands enough to know that this is the banter they share. It is the love and friendship they created in their own, weird, way. 

Pietro wakes and it is quiet. The soldiers in the other cots neither stir nor snore, the nurse on duty could be mistaken for a statue. Beneath him, the bed is stiff and dry. There is no reason for his waking up and it worries him slightly. Pietro doesn't remember his dream; or if he had one. In the silence, he breaths shakily as he lies back down to sleep.   
  Then it changes.   
  The bed is no long stiff and dry. There is liquid pooling beneath him and it is warm and thick and oh god! He looks down and sees the blood rising and the mattress sinks in and his hands are no longer visible as the blood drowns his legs. Pietro screams. He kicks the tangled sheets which only traps him. Panic overcomes him as he desperately tries to pull himself off of the bed. But his arms are heavy and the blood his dragging him down and- 

  "Pietro!" Thor snaps, hands clenching the younger man's shoulders as he shakes him. Pietro gasps once he's awake, sweating and scared. He stares at Thor and realizes, with utter relief, that it was a dream. It was all a dream.   
  "Oh god..." he sighs. Delirium easing out of him with a thankful smile.   
  "Are you alright?" Thor asks. When Pietro nods, he brings a cloth over Pietro's forehead. "You were fretting in your sleep."   
  "Bad dream." And just like that, Thor understands. He doesn't press for details but he stays close until Pietro finally lets exhaustion force him to sleep. Pietro doesn't dream this time.  
  Thankfully. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, what did you think?  
> Remember, this is a slow burn story so it might take Clint a while to come into play. But there will be appearances from other people, so yay for that.  
> Thanks for checking this out. 
> 
> See you in the next one :)


End file.
